POWER – Jim Morrison – LitDiscourse – Verses Inked

 

Jim Morrison born 8th December, 1943 in Melbourne, Florida -USA, found dead under mysterious circumstances, 3rd July 1971 in Paris, France. Our concern on this day of December is the birth anniversary of the man.

Jim Morrison, immortalized as the front man of The Doors, eccentric recording artist, a student of cinema, wished to be remembered as a poet. Your wish, dear sir is our command. The kind of ideas which gets us exited at Verses Inked. Poetry centrist.

Jim Morrison, an ingenious recording artist, eccentric showman, among the forefathers of psychedelia, counterculture protagonist, supernova forever in a state of suspension in the realms of infinity, for generations to behold.

On the occasion of the bard’s 74th birthday, we pick up on an ever popular subject. Man’s eternal muse, the aeonian drive towards evermore, the rate at which the force works, unit work per unit time. Power.

The piece was included in, “The lost writings of Jim Morrison” series, volume I titled, Wilderness. Published 1988 by Vintage Books.

As the back page monologue of the book proclaims, in the words of the author himself.

“Listen, real poetry doesn’t say anything, it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through any one that suits you.” –Jim Morrison

So shall our commentary be.

The reader may, if they so please seek for in the texts the Existentialism of Niethsche, Symbolism of Arthur Rimbaud, or the Romanticism of William Blake.

There is no pot of gold sitting at the end of the rainbow, that we could promise of to the reader. Reason enough for them to go onto the very end, except sheer merit of the verse, which we strategically commercialize to our advantage, rather than academically judge for any reason whatsoever. May the power press on.

 

Power by Jim Morrison

I can make the earth stop in
its tracks. I made the
blue cars go away.

I can make myself invisible or small.
I can become gigantic & reach the
farthest things. I can change
the course of nature.
I can place myself anywhere in
space or time.
I can summon the dead.
I can perceive events on other worlds,
in my deepest inner mind,
& in the minds of others.

I can

I am
~~~

People need Connectors
Writers, heroes, stars,
leaders
To give life form.
A child’s sand boat facing
the sun.
Plastic soldiers in the miniature
dirt war.  Forts.
Garage Rocket Ships

Ceremonies, theatre, dances
To reassert Tribal needs & memories
a call to worship, uniting
above all, a reversion,
a longing for family & the
safety magic of childhood.
~~~

The grand highway
is crowded
w/
lovers
&
searchers
&
leavers
so
eager
to
please
&
forget

Wilderness
~~~

Now is blessed
The rest
remembered
~~~

A man rakes leaves into
a heap in his yard, a pile,
& leans on his rake &
burns them utterly.
The fragrance fills the forest
children pause & heed the
smell, which will become
nostalgia in several years
~~~

Sirens
Water
Rain & Thunder
Jet from the base
Hot searing insect cry
The frogs & crickets
Doors open & close
The smash of glass
The Soft Parade
An accident
Rustle of silk, nylon
Watering the dry grass
Fire
Bells
Rattlesnake, whistles, castanets
Lawn mower
Good Humor man
Skates & wagons
Bikes
~~~

Where’d you learn about
Satan- out of a book
Love?- out of a box
~~~

night of sin (The Fall)
-1st sex, a feeling of having
done this same act in time before
O No, not again
~~~

Between childhood, boyhood,
adolescence
& manhood (maturity) there
should be sharp lines drawn w/
Tests, deaths, feats, rites
stories, songs, & judgements
~~~

Men who go out on ships
To escape sin & the mire of cities
watch the placenta of evening stars
from the deck, on their backs
& cross the equator
& perform rituals to exhume the dead
dangerous initiations
To mark passage to new levels

To feel on the verge of an exorcism
a rite of passage
To wait, or seek manhood
enlightenment in a gun

To kill childhood, innocence
in an instant

 

TS Elliot – The Hollow Men. LitDiscourse – Verses Inked

hollow men

TS Elliot – The Hollow Men. LitDiscourse – Verses Inked

ts elliot

In the times of Kazuo Ishiguro, winner of the Nobel Literature Prize in 2017, we at Verses Inked are still talking about Elliot – winner of the award in 1948, for his distinguished and among all, ‘pioneering’ contribution to the field of literature.

You could not but be preoccupied with poetry at Verses Inked.September 28th is observed as National Poetry day in the United Kingdom and Ireland. September 26th is the birth anniversary of T.S.Elliot, preceded by a day each by the birthdays of William Faulkner and F. Scott Fitzgerald. An overdose of poetry and literature. The kind of stuff that gets us exited at Verses Inked.

April, however is the cruelest month, as Elliot says in the opening lines of his much revered – The Waste Land. April as a matter of fact and co-incidence is also celebrated as the National Poetry month by the Academy of American poets.

Now to a day of business at Verses Inked. About the Verses Inked way of going about an affair. More than making the best of a given situation. Its about talking what you want to talk about. Its about sharing an experience. It is how you distinguish an occasion. It is about keeping a tradition going.

TS Elliot – The Hollow men – LitDiscourse -Verses Inked.

 

“this is the way the world ends,

this is the way the world ends,

this is the way the world ends,

Not with a bang, but with a whimper.”

 

The famous concluding stanza from the poem, the hollow men, a poem identified the social and political tensions in Europe post world war I. An in-between phase for the author in many ways.   The above quoted stanza, arguably is the most quoted lines in 20th century poetry. Yet to speak of beginnings. The poem commences upon its course with the following lines.

 

Mistah Kurtz he dead

A penny for the old guy.

 

Two seemingly harmless references before the verse is delivered and a TS Elliot masterclass is set upon its destined projectile.

Mistah Kurtz is a key character in Joseph Conrad’s Novella – The Heart of Darkness. The persona in chief who in the shadow of the vile capitalist forces renders relevance to the title.

The next line – ‘A penny for the old guy’, is cry from British kids for donations to buy fireworks on Guy Fawkes day, to commemorate the failure of the gun powder plot.

In fact the mention of 2 monumentally shadowed characters to commence on a barrage of the most extra-ordinary verse, which makes TS Elliot one among the masters of modernism.

Even as the poem commences, the modernist poet right away is hard put to task, drawing heavily from formalism and Imagism. Rhythmic, precise, intricately structured, heart wrenching, lyrical, drawing vivid imagery and that should be it. A true student of the art as the modernist poet is, there are several references to Dante, to be followed by a hint of a mention of Shakespeare’s Brutus, and a reference to the Lord’s Prayer in the lines, ‘For thine is the kingdom.

As a body of work, the poem in its entirety is of 98 lines. Far too much of literature for poetry to be exhaustive about and not sound academic. More-so when the entire compilation of the verse is quote worthy, at every drop of a punctuation. Death has an a predominant influence on the subject matter. Death qualifies as a kingdom, described with the adjectives – dream, twilight and other. The theme of the poem, which elevates as the common factor in the various segments of the poem, is a sense of incompleteness, complimented with futile excesses and rank obscenities. Yet all so exquisite poetry to sound, as only was possible in the early half of the 20th century. The poet draws brilliant, vivid images in quick succession through out the entire expanse of the written verse.

The entire verse is laid out in the following segment for the benefit of the reader. Plain and simple poetry – As and how we have had known it. This is how after all – The World Ends . In a Whimper. The state of poetry..rests its case.

 

 

The Hollow Men

Mistah Kurtz-he dead
A penny for the Old Guy

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us-if at all-not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer-

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

 

Reading F.Scott Fitzgerald on his Birthday

f.scott fitzgerald

Reading F.Scott Fitzgerald on his Birthday

 September 24, 2017 marks the 121st birth anniversary of F. Scott Fitzgerald.

There is no missing out on quoting Scott Fitzgerald, when the occasion so demands. As legends have it, on the occasion of the author’s funeral, among the attendees was a certain Dorothy Parker, who is said to have muttered under her breath in mourning the words of the narrator spoken during Jay Gatbsy’s funeral – ‘the poor son-of-a-bitch.’

We at Verses Inked commemorate the occasion with an analytic commentary on the the author’s poetry.

The verse in discourse, On a Play Twice Seen, was printed in the Nassau Magazine, which was published by the American Whig-Cliosophic Society – a socio-political, literary and debating society at Princeton university. In its own rights, the oldest recognized debating community in United States.

It was at Princeton University that an adolescent Fitzgerald spent the years perfecting his craft. The poem was published in the Nassau Magazine in 1917, at a time when the world was still at world war I, during in fact the author’s closing years at the university, before he was drafted and assigned to camp Sheridan on the outskirts Montgomery, Alabama and tada – the war ended. The poem is from the still early years in the poet’s life, before the author’s life in New York during the great depression , before the jazz age, and Paris and Ernest Hemingway and the commercial promises of Hollywood – factors which in their modest ways determined the categorization of the lost generation  . The poem portrays an early age university romance in the author’s life, before his association with Zelda Sayre, whom he however first met while at station at Montgomery. The year was 1918.

fitzgerald poetryt

The verse itself lays out as a soft carpet of emotions which are brought forward while the poet was in audience to the same play twice with the same person, perhaps a sweetheart. Why would anyone otherwise write poetry if not for a sweetheart . The play did not much move the author either time, yet he muses in his poetry about his companion’s reaction to the ending of the play when some Mister X defends divorce and some What’s her name falls in his arms, fainting out.

The poem en capsules the passage of time through the development of a relationship  over a period of a year, among years. It relates the other’s response to the concluding scene on each occasion , how the impact is more acute the second time over and brings forward the subtle showcase of sympathy from the poet. While all prevailing emotions were downplayed during the former instance, understood as juvenility. Like we recommend at Verses Inked – shut out the sounds and let each word speak for itself, let poetry create and set its million worlds into motion. Happy birthday F Scott Fitzgerald.

 

ON A PLAY TWICE SEEN

Here in the figured dark I watch once more;

There with the curtain rolls a year away,

A year of years — There was an idle day

Of ours, when happy endings didn’t bore

Our unfermented souls, and rocks held ore:

Your little face beside me, wide-eyed, gay,

Smiled its own repertoire, while the poor play

Reached me as a faint ripple reaches shore.

Yawning and wondering an evening through

I watch alone — and chatterings of course

Spoil the one scene which somehow did have charms;

You wept a bit, and I grew sad for you

Right there, where Mr. X defends divorce

And What’s-Her-Name falls fainting in his arms.

 

Fyodor Dostoevsky – Existentialism and a Short Story.

fyodor dostoevsky

Fyodor Dostoevsky – Existentialism and a Short Story.

An Honest Thief by Fyodor Dostoevsky

Dostoevsky-A Stark Impression of a Collective Imagination:

To oversize or to overrate. To impress upon or to intend again. Shock pop or more of the same. Just keep on popping on, straight up, over again. Mention not my friend. For every verse was worth its ink. Each and every time. Again and every again for every one whose thought was put down in impressed ink. We choose Dostoevsky

dostevsky

 

Fyodor Dostoevsky. A story-teller, writer of essays, ill famed journalist of the Tsarist Russia, a philosopher in Russia of the age. As would the iconic cat Behmoth have it. The diabolic, feline, among the aids to Satan himself; from the story line of Mikhail Bulgakov’s fabled Master and Margarita. As would the walking, trash talking, hell raising Behmoth have it in any case. The idea of Dostoevsky’s death, in the Moscow of the 1930’s is claimed to be utterly ridiculous by Behmoth. “ Dostoevsky is immortal”, the fiend solemnly professes. In fact the spirit of the man is so elementarily ingrained in the thought fabric of the subsequent thinkers, that the idea of the man’s death could acceptably seem to be ludicrous.

Building on upon the immortality of the man. The Man who would go onto inspire an entire generation of thinkers from around the world. Perhaps all we do is merely re-affirm some loosely hanging on pages of the text in the man’s legend. To an unaware literature nerd, Dostoevsky sure gives the feels of a curiosity, that must be delved into with much enthusiasm. To the average,educated Geek, perhaps only a modest recall to the state of somberness. Not a celebration like in the case of a Shakespeare, or the archaic romance of a Coleridge. Only a sense of melancholic being, the feels of foreverness.

 

The Existentialist: 

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Image Source: buzfeed.com

These were the Existentialists. The believers on the subject. Those still carefully stacking up their hopes on humanity. Them finding only as much meaning in life, as their psyche imparts to it. They who consider the perception of the beyond as absurd. Their subjects of expression might have differed, yet their philosophical belief tended in the same direction, giving form and structure to the Existentialist oeuvre. Their unyielding faith on the very moral fiber of mankind, is what formed the framework to the school of philosophy.

The tone of their expression might have varied from satire to stark – on your face. Yet in more ways than one their intentions mean the same. To show humanity a palpable image of their own doings. A bitter reflection of the times. There is seldom the thought of thunder, unless it is not meant to strike an object of interest, when you are a Sartre or a Nietzsche. Dostoevsky, who was distinguished geographically, could not be much removed ideologically from the thinking strain of the Existentialists of a later generation. The Existentialist movement as a considerable entity arrested the interest of popular culture only after the second world war, yet the philosophy had been around for quite through the likes of Kierkegaard and Dostoevsky. In fact, Dostoevsky’s much acclaimed novella, written in the year 1864, ‘ Notes from the Underground’, is universally considered to be among the first specimens of written text which gives form to whole body of Existentialist Literature.

The Celebration of a Short Story: 

Yet we address a smaller fry today in this particular edition. Not in depth of content, or what it is worth its value wonderment, yet in its all encompassing effect, with respect to time involved. Here we string together a literal composition cerebrating, as much celebrating, the mere few occurrences of circumstances, which completes the universe of this form of documentation. The solitary Short story.Not the panoptic study of an anthology. In the short story there are no layered character sketches and long developing situations, as one may find in a bigger piece of literal expression, yet there is ample of every thing to take your breath away, leave you suspended in amazement, and get you rambling about. For in the business of celebration, you really have to make it count, always.

In this world of Saturday night Live and sports cars, there still are people who read Chekhov and keep Dostoevsky in their thoughts. The later it gets, the more sense Nietzsche always makes.

The Honest Thief:

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Image Source- fineartamerica.com

The Honest Thief was composed by Dostoevsky in the year 1848. A period in the author’s life whence he had successfully published two novels,and was acclaimed in the literary circles of St Petersburg, the place where the arts mattered. The Honest Thief finds itself among short stories of the author that were published in the magazine, ‘Annals of the Fatherland’.

The story is based on the impressions of relationships which the characters in the story mutually share in the society they are a part of. There is foremost the narrator, lonely and of considerable stature in society. Besides tale telling he has little other business in the development of the plot. Apart from the fact that it was his jacket which got stolen, the incident which catalyzes the latter part of the narration, the story of the protagonist. There is then Agrafena, the elderly domestic help to the narrator. Besides there is also Astafy Ivanovitch, an elderly gentleman, a former soldier, a practicing tailor, who as the story commences on the recommendation of Agrafena moves in as a boarder in the narrator’s apartment. Emelyan Ilyitch, often affectionately referred to as Emelyanouska is the invariably inebriated, virtuously under performing, prodigal protagonist, who had to pay with his life to bring about the conclusion to the plot. The spirit of compassion and hope laboriously soars over the shortcomings of our own kind. The first few flickering flames of existentialism is set into motion. Labor on mankind.

 

Also Read From the Desk: The Rum Diary by Hunter S Thompson

The Rum Diary by Hunter Thompson on Verses Inked

The Maverick, the Method, the Madness. The Rum Diary by Hunter Thompson on Verses Inked. All in – One Love

RUM BOTTLE

Hope has seldom been better explained, as understood in the cracking open of a bottle of rum.

Welcome to the world of verses inked, verses explained through ink. Better never, fashionably late, statutory – tending to ambling, as is the piece in discussion. Delightfully laid down, as often was during counter culture era, as also at Verses Inked, we present to the dear readers, this category they should be interested about. Verses Thread. We dive in first, here and how. Hunter S Thompson-The Rum Diaries.

The absolute artificer of Gonzo Journalism, you may rest your spine assure that if Hunter Thompson explains a situation, he would have had, in most accounts gone through it. There is then this iffy relationship which the writer shares with the keyboard. A chemistry which churns out the content. The perceptions in between the known and the unknown.

The Diary is in vein autobiographical. A dedication , as print suggests to Heidi Opheim, Mary Sue Rued and Dana Kennedy.

The following quote precedes the written text:-

My rider of the bright eyes,

What happened to you yesterday.?

I thought you in my heart,

When I bought your fine clothes,

A man the world could not slay.

 

-Dark Eileen O’Connell 1773.

 

Also Read:Who Killed Hunter S Thompson – An Inquiry into the Life and Death of Master of Gonzo 

 

HUNTERSTHOMPSON-PORTRAIT

Hunter Thompson, was a life long aficionado of alcohol, substance and mistake not, fire arms. The author was once a sports journalist at San Juan in Puerto Rico.

The narration of the plot hashes out a plethora of situation, which with overt gestures reflects the author’s time at the island. It remains a matter of more than mere chance that the characters stringing together the circumstances, in this case often radical, also draw inspiration from real life.

There is the all conquering, scrambling through, somehow protagonist, Paul Kemp, who throughout the narration, like almost everybody, almost always, in a drunken stupor, holds his own, as situations come hurling in, swell out of proportion towards the greater conclusion, leaving the reader in a state of wishful trance.

Paul Kemp’s romantic interest, from the very beginning, in fact, since his fateful flight to Puerto Rico, had been this petite blonde girl,Chenault. The situations in between the two always have a tensed, along the fringes of outrageous, knack about them.

There is then The Daily News, headed by an uncertain Ed Lotterman, and run by an entourage of staff. Sala the freelance photographer and a dear confidant to the protagonist; Yeamon, a close friend, also a reporter at the news, as well Chenault’s romantic interest during the former part of the story,until the carnival. The ever resourceful PR guy, Hal Sanderson, hell-raiser Moberg, the sports editor Bill Donovan, of prim and proper disposition, yet all in comparison and according to the situation. There is also a certain Mr. Zimburger, an acquaintance of Sanderson, a former captain at the Corps, still proud,more obsessed, a mean to an end.

The story is set against the back drop of fleeting communist references, the dwindling fortunes of the Daily News, and the influence of rum, which individually is the all encompassing throttle driving the narration ahead.

Al’s kitchen serving up its indigenous hamburgers and rum, plays host to a number of scenes. There is also the News office, and the sights sounds of Puerto-Rico which puts the novel together. The description of the Carnival at St Thomas, and the immediate events which ensued, is of notable importance to the flow of the time-line. Random watering holes, filled with writers, sailors and compulsive merry makers, that borrowed dilapidated car, that scooter in worse condition, a quiet beach somewhere, angry mobs, police stations, cab drivers, spill overs among innumerable Rum refills and the ever pressing tropical air. That is what makes the book, the odd two hundred pages of substance that it is.

The story concludes in a melting pot of emotions, which is somehow made mellow by the mere mention of Rum, albeit over and over again. The overarching daze seeps into the imagination of the avid reader,with conviction. The newspaper eventually shuts down, the staff are busy, getting the far flung fractals of their lives together. Their belligerence lead to a chaotic, yet successful attempt of assassination at Lotterman. Paul Kemp, has no part to play in the homicide. Yet he could not totally not feel a sense of empathy towards the conspirators. Chenault, armed with a surprise waits for him in New York. More rum and hamburgers, every time served at Al’s by this negro named Sweep.

Protocol, or perhaps belief, that it takes a hundred strikes and more to fashion gold, whereas in case of iron, it takes only a numbered few. So is Thompson’s narration. Perhaps his body of work, to some sentimental, judgmental mind is like the strike of a hammer on iron,one blow at a time. The narration lacks the close knit, yet it all holds together, perhaps as always.

It is not for nothing that the cinematic rendition of the novel has a number of alterations in the screenplay, when compared to the original text. The freakish flamboyance of Yeamon and the drive of Hal Sanderson is moulded into one character, as Sanderson. Besides the whole business deal with Mr Zimburger acts as a prequel to the carnival, and is of little importance after, in the novel. Whereas in the movie, the whole affair draws considerable breadth, and leads to the helter skelter at the conclusion

The film was a brainchild of Bruce Robinson, brought to life by the only Jhonny Depp. It was in fact, Depp’s industry and prolonged acquaintance with the author, that the original text, written in the sixties, was brought to print fourty years later. What more, Thompson calls his house, Owl Farm.

-88-

Declaring by Federico Garcia Lorca

A Cautious Power Dwells, Accidental and Passing

The turn of the 19th century, in the province of Granada, in Andalusia, Spain, washed more by the Mediterranean Sea than the Atlantic Ocean, more west than north of the strait of Gibraltar, is a small town by the name of Fuente Vaquros, which saw the germinating years of the poet and playwright of the future, Federico Garcia Lorca. While around the world the British fought the second Boer war, the Americans commissioned the construction of the Central American Shipping Canal in Nicargua, beside sanctioning the Gold Standard Act, which placed the American dollar under the Gold Standard, securing its position in the times to come. Elsewhere Russia invaded Munchuria while the city of Munich saw the inception of Fußball-Club Bayern München, and the Parisians geared up for the Paris World Exhibition, which also saw the city play host to the second Modern Olympics. While the world was still discovering its first Hamburger sandwich, and perhaps slam dunk, yet as was it then, so is it now, the world could not shed much care to the cause of a Hispanic historian. Like the awkward moment you realise that god might as well made a lot many grub, yet man made hummus. That makes man as much of a maker, as is God. Not exaggerating.

‘bout the Bard:

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Staying true to the script, for each actor got to write their own lines, the authorship moves on ahead about Federcio Garcia Lorca. Federico del Sagrado Corazon de Jesus Garcia Lorca, too much of a quintessential specimen for a student of Spanish nomenclature, a symbol of a cultural association, which in the 1920’s was known as the Generación del 27, a revival of an earlier movement from the 1880’s called Ateneo de Sevilla or the Excursions Ateneo and Society . The brainchild of a certain D. Manuel Sales i Ferre. The spirit of a group of outlandish Spanish bohemians, which a certain Herbert Huncke and friends a few decades later would radicalise as Beat, adding another passage to the labyrinths of endless Americano. Garcia Lorca as a personage is someone whom universal Americano would endorse with wide open arms, holding roses in bloom and blazing guns for a background score. The body of work becomes essentially ephemeral, as it sits pretty on the crust of the gazeless persona, that which Americano could not get enough of.

Gracia Lorca brought enough to the table, to have humble Americano drooling for a lifetime. To begin with his Gypsy image from the early days, his aspirations of been a musician since even before, whence he once looked up to classic sound scrapes of Debussy, Chopin, Beethoven, before the flames of flamenco fed upon the fuel that we know as the mind. A communist, a keeper of liberal opinions, queer, a suitor to Salvador Dali, a traveler to the Americas of opportunities. Among all a writer of sonnets, dedicated to the theater, assassinated. Verses inked ever since. Take over philosophy.

 poetry grows:

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Pastel and Graphite on Paper. by Nikola Jankovic

For the title of the script demands for the Declaring, we must provide the appropriate space. Nothing more radical than what already has the internet abuzz. Nothing meat shearing, or ground breaking in the literal sense. Only poetry, for which there is this Spaniard to be blamed. The poem which goes by the name of, Declaring. One among a handful of poems of Garcia Lorca which a reader in the language, English could come across.

As a piece of construction barely expanses over 10 lines, and uses precise and pragmatic vocabulary. The precision, on fact par excellent.

The poet through this poem, asks the reader to search for, above all a conscience. A piece of mind that is confident and comforting like the autumn sun. The poets asks the reader to rest their feet. The poet like the snail on the sand looks for happiness in absolute casual things, like windows once walked, in the shell of their absolute little lives, next to some stone desk life, the snail cautiously climbed the wall. Self-assured of its strength, to the appearance accidental, and to the timeline, only passing.

The poet describes the world through the absolute windows, in their little lives, talking to overlooking walls, of letters  perched august like a throne on stones. The desk-life unfolds bringing into creation chances and the permeating felling of passage of time. Ain’t it worth the time you invest. Only ten lines.

sunflower

-88-

If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

‘Bout the bard-

Ricardo Eliécer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto, born July 12th, year 1904,
deceased on September 23rd, 1973. The man who first adopted the name for the sake of the page, and then assumed it with all legal formalities.  The man known as Pablo Neruda. The winner of the Noble Prize for Literature in the year 1971.

As a poet alone, he played many parts. From being a child prodigy at ten, popular as Pablo Neruda,  while still in his teens, a dirty lover to many, a chronicler of historic epics, a capable communist and a prosaic self portraitist, among others. The words of the bard however, ofttimes came down in green ink, which was his characteristic representation of longing and promise.

The year 1948 saw the then Chilean president Gabriel González Videla, abolish communism in the country. Neruda, who was then a member of the senate on behalf of the Chilean Communist Party, had an arrest warrant issued in his name. A period when the poet was expatriated from his home country. An important event, in an individual’s life, no matter how ephemeral or prolonged the period of exile is.

 

The Song’s Tale-

As per most expectations, it was during this period that Neruda composed the verses the we shall hereupon discuss.   If You Forget Me, what necessity would translate it as. Si Tu Me Olvida, as would have had Neruda made it sound in Spanish  The piece may be looked upon as an intonated address by the poet, to his beloved country. As it is perhaps with every communist,  patriotism is rubbed upon duty free. Yet, as so often it is with a practitioner of poetry, they would always have a lover for an alibi. At the time the verse was composed, the poet was in matrimony to Delia del Carril, an Argentine writer in her own rights.  Yet the poem is believed to be  addressed towards lady, Matilde Urrutia, who was at that time a lover to the poet, and later would go onto marry him.

While translation leaves us paralyzed. There is only as much of it we could comprehend, and consider the rest to be bitter cost. For the reader in the other language would never come to know the subtle nuances of dialogue, like lifting iron, or iron been lifted. And, more so in case of Neruda, who remains to be one of the most difficult to translate authors of his language. This is the reason why only a minuscule section of the author’s body of work is available for readers in English.

 

A few English translations of the piece in discussion may be chanced upon, on the internet.  Yet as it is with poetry so often, that all is not dependent on the arrangement of the words, as a lot of it is taken care of in the essence of it. So in this case there is the crystal moon,  and the slow autumn, the impalpable ash, and to be beheld,  the wrinkled body of the log.
Among necessary ingredients that constitute poetry, could be considered abstraction. Abstraction as a process of preoccupation, as a mode of conception. Abstraction as a form of art itself. The same the poet utilizes, in this case to the fullest of his potential. Certain parallels could be drawn in between the state of the author emotionally, and that of Homer’s Odysseus. In the lines which speak of sailing across metaphorical dividing expanses. Sound, sight and touch disintegrated like humble vessels, lost on the ocean, intended to be bound towards the island where the lover awaits.

The entire body of the piece is a straight dialogue to the lover. What if she walks away, what if she decides to come back. What of the love, what of heart. What of the quest of the heart, and those of the lips of the lover. What of the familiar shores which holds back the heart. The heart devoid of love, would it not go looking out. What of the fire, how long shall last the fuel, the implacable sweetness of destiny. How do each end up with their arms. How every measured step either drive the lovers apart, or bring them ever so close together Thus spake the poet.  Such were the lines.

Please find below a reading of the piece done by Madonna.